A Guilty Conscience Grows
by Taiven
Summary: When a stranger appears out of nowhere and ends up saving her life, Mercedes soon finds herself quickly being pulled into a world as dark as one could imagine. She can only hope her savior will be there a second time. [Other Character's POV]
1. Chapter One

Summary: Mercedes is saved by a strange man who suddenly pulls her into a world she has already tasted. A world in which she knows little of but somehow knows exists, because she has witnessed what surely should not exist. When she finds her life is threatened, and two men offer to help her, it may turn out that they are the key to free her from a past mistake. Because she knows a guilty conscience grows, and she knows it never stops.

Spoilers: Season 2 spoilers. Be warned.

Disclaimer: I think you all know.

Characters: Mercedes, Dean, and Sam

Rating: M just to be safe.

Author's Note: Well, this is a story I began in the summer and never finished until now. That's right, it's already _finished_! This should be described as a full out miracle if you've read anything else I've written, for barely any of my stories are finished yet. (But they will be!)

Anyway, this one is a little different from my others. It's written entirely from another character's point of view. Her thoughts and all are included within the words, so there may be some pointless things added for that affect. I have no clue where it came from, and I don't believe it is very good, but I hope you guys enjoy all the same!

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**A Guilty Conscience Grows**

Chapter One 

_I met the man who would kill me on a dark November night. _

His fingernails are digging into my arm and I can smell the distinct stench of liquor upon his foul breath. I wrinkle my nose to ward it off, but it's wafting right into my face. A commercial for breath mints I had watched earlier that day enters my mind but it is quickly chased away by more serious thoughts. There is no way to escape the man before me, and there's certainly no way to escape his bad breath.

He's standing fairly close – close enough that I can see his eyes and discover that they're a muddy brown. I don't know why I notice the colour of his irises, but I tend to perceive odd details when faced with unfamiliar situations. I guess it's my own little way to cope with the foreign emotions that come with them, just as I seem to find humor when things take a turn for the worse.

Speaking of this situation – _my_ situation -, I have no clue as to how I came to be here. One moment I am walking to work, a local bar only a few blocks from my apartment, and now I am in the clutches of a drunken molester. It's kind of funny actually. Hadn't my horoscope of the day warned me to stay away from isolated places? _"Be wary of secluded spots"_ It had cautioned. _"Love will not be able to find you when you're hiding."_

Okay, so maybe my horoscope isn't exactly related to my circumstances, but maybe if I had listened and obeyed this wouldn't be happening. But horoscopes are completely irrelevant at the moment, for suddenly I am shoved against the brick wall, a gasp escaping my lips as the impact jolts my body.

I watch as a smile splits 'Crap Eyes'' face, his lips a thin red gash against his pale skin. I'm guessing he's in his late thirties, maybe older. He doesn't appear to be very strong, yet I'm not exactly musclewoman of the year. Red splotches cover his cheeks and neck, and I find myself wondering how much alcohol this guy has actually drunk. I hate alcohol at the moment.

His hands and eyes become groping, and I know what is about to come next; what this man wants. But though my mind is still trying to decide what to do about it, instinct is clear in my blood. It's the "fight or flee" impulse, and since running seems utterly impossible at the moment, fighting appears to be my only option.

I hear the grunt of a man who has lost his breath as I somehow manage to draw my knee up and ram it into Crap Eyes' stomach. He doubles over and I push him backwards. His balance – already shaky from the amount of liquor he has consumed – is lost and he effortlessly topples over, still gripping his belly in an exaggerated pain.

Relief floods my body yet fear is still evident in my mind, and, free now from the grasp of the vile rapist, I turn to run. Yet stupidly (forgetting the last instruction taught in self defense class – always look before you flee), I find myself in the clutches of another man. This guy, I'm guessing, is a friend of Crap Eyes, and now _he _is grinning down at me from the shadows.

In the dim light of the alley I can hardly see his face, but what I do notice is his build. He easily has a few inches on Crap Eyes, towering above me like a gigantic tree. His arms are like thick branches – no, make those trunks. He's enormous, and his grip on my arms is almost bone crushing.

Something is seriously wrong about him – and I don't mean petty drunken wrong. Though I have to crane my neck to look up at his face, his eyes somehow glint in the darkness, and what I see sends a shiver rippling through my body. Where his accomplice was simply looking for a "good time", this guy is searching for his own kind of deranged fun.

I try to scream, to yell for help, but my voice had deserted me from the very moment thick, sticky fear had slicked my throat, which was at about the same time I had felt Crap Eyes' cold hand on my shoulder. Attempting to struggle free, panic _really_ settling in now, I watch in horror as a giant hand consumes my view and I feel my head bash against the brick wall behind me. Pain explodes through my mind as inky black splotches obstruct my view. They remind me of those cards psychiatrists sometimes use, when they ask "What do you see?", and you answer with "a butterfly" or "a rabbit" when really it just looks like a giant blob.

I can hardly see a thing, what with the lack of lighting and the dark spots and the massive shadow in front of me, it's almost impossible to make out anything. But I can still hear and taste and smell and feel, and what I hear and taste and smell and feel I certainly do not like.

Pain is what I feel. And blood. It's dripping down the back of my head, the liquid hot against my scalp as it soaks through my hair. I have heard head wounds tend to bleed a lot even if they're not serious, so I'm not all that worried, but 'Tree Trunk' is still here and obviously he is here to hurt me. This fact allows me to become increasingly aware of my heart hammering in my chest and my pulse thundering through my temples.

I smell blood too. It's mingling in the thick air, along with the stench of sweat and alcohol, and - is that urine? I fear for a moment that I may have wet myself involuntarily, but then I remember I'm in an alley. It's like the city's own porta-potty. Still, it all makes me want to throw up and my stomach is churning away as I fight to control the reflexes of gagging.

I taste copper; a metallic flavour in my mouth as I realize I may have bitten my tongue. I _definitely_ have bitten my tongue, for now I can sense the throbbing and swollenness and I recognize the substance filling my mouth as nothing other than more blood. For some odd reason my thoughts turn to my clothes, specifically my favourite T-shirt that I have on at this very moment. I want to curse as I imagine it stained with red, but for one, I can't even speak, and secondly, there is much worse I should be fearing other than the future damage of a piece of cloth.

Lastly, I become aware of all the sounds surrounding me. There is the distant noise of passing cars, the faint wisp of music, and of course my own breathing. It's loud and shaky, and I kind of feel embarrassed at the way I seem to be hyperventilating, but what else can I do? Tree Trunk has his hand around my neck now, and the black splotches are starting to get larger and darker.

I feel my back pressing into the wall, scraping against the coarse bricks as my feet leave the ground and the man lifts me with one arm. My hands have instinctively gripped his impossibly large one, trying to tear it away from my neck, to give me some room to _breathe_. The world is fading to nothingness as the alley disappears and all I am left with is darkness; Darkness and an uncanny dread.

I am about to die. My lungs are screaming for air and pain is bursting through my mind like a fourth of July fireworks show. And I really have no clue why this is happening. What does this man want from me? Why does he want me dead? Am I simply a random girl that happened to be caught alone, hurrying down a dark alley near midnight? Why _me_?

And then I realize why me. _Because I deserve it_. I deserve to die for everything I didn't do, everything I could have done, and maybe those few things I did do. The mistakes… Maybe this man knows everything, all my deep dark secrets, and now he is giving me what I should surely have expected. It feels kind of fitting now; right to die, to go like this. Never have I been a strong believer in fate, but maybe this is destiny now. Or just karma… Whatever the reason, I let my body go limp and I let the darkness take me.

But what the hell is going on now? I have accepted death. I have let it seize me, but now it is _refusing _me? This isn't right. Seriously. Of all the things in the world I have always thought of death as something I can rely on. Something I knew was real and solid and concrete. How it has misled me!

But anyway, aside from the betrayal, I am now curious as to why I can suddenly breathe. I have fallen to my knees and am gasping for breath, nursing my bruised neck as I cough and cough and cough, my eyes screwed shut. Everything is pretty much the same. I smell and taste and feel blood, but now I am coughing it up as well, and my thoughts can't help but to dwindle back to my favourite T-shirt which is probably ruined by now.

But something _has_ changed. The sounds. No longer is the alley near silent. I can still hear the blood pounding in my skull, my ragged breaths shuddering from my lips, but now there are new noises. Like the WHACK that sounds like a bag of meat being pummeled, the _scuff_ of shoes on pavement, a cut off grunt, a sickening CRACK, an urgent _whisper_, and then I am struggling to open my eyes.

As they fly open I am still unable to see, but the splotches are quickly dying away and images are coming into view. The poor lighting within the alleyway makes it difficult to distinguish what is happening before me, but it is obvious two men are in a brawl. Their outlines are fuzzy but clear in the dim glow, and I can see their tense bodies, each ready to attack or defend.

I recognize one of the men as Tree Trunk, his height over his opponent clearly giving him the advantage. The other I first believe to be Crap Eyes, but that makes no sense. Besides, this man is too brawny to be the pervert who is probably still sprawled on the pavement unconscious.

As I stare and try to focus on the two men I notice that Tree Trunk seems to be faltering. There is no doubt in my mind at this point that he can easily crush his challenger - standing at least ten inches taller he is inhumanly large – but I am amazed to see him take a step back. I hear a threatening growl bubble up from his throat but the newcomer stands his ground. And then, amazement still clouding my thoughts, I watch as the man turns and runs down the alley, vanishing into the shadows as if he had never existed.

With astonishment still apparent on my face, I turn my eyes to the remaining figure. The dim glow of a light post from the street surrounds this new man's shape, revealing his trim but muscular profile. I can see his chest heaving up and down repeatedly as I become aware of the sounds of his breathing as well. They're low and gruff as he stares down the alley and into the impenetrable darkness.

And that's when a coughing fit decides to attack my body again. "Are you all right?" I hear a male's voice ask, and I struggle to reply. "Y-yah." I falter, blood still thick in my mouth but the coughing now receding.

The man is immediately by my side. I'm guessing he heard the pain in my voice. It shocked me at first too, but now I am again sensing the sting in the back of my head and my tongue feels like a balloon in my mouth. I worry for a moment that it'll block my air passage – not wanting to relive the experience of suffocating again so soon - but I seem to be all right for the moment.

His hand is pressing gently against the small of my back, his other lightly taking my arm and helping me up. I don't trust my legs at first, but as I find I am able to stand I am also able to relax a bit. The man speaks again. "You need to get to a hospital," he says as he swings around to face me, softly gripping both of my shoulders, making sure I am truly all right.

From the way he is positioned I still cannot see his face. All I can observe is that he is fairly tall (of course not as soaring as Tree Trunk) and his hair is cut short. I can tell he is wearing jeans and a dark coat of some sort, but that's about it.

I try to mentally shake the lingering effects of panic from my body as I hear him say, "There's a hospital a few blocks away from here. I can drive you there." I can do nothing other than comply, letting him guide me to the end of the alleyway. He seems anxious but patient and I can tell that he's still unsure that I'm okay. To tell you the truth, I'm not all that certain either.

But as I walk my head begins to clear and I chance a look behind me. Crap Eyes has disappeared. No longer is the unconscious drunk sprawled across the pavement. And the space remains empty with the other man now gone too. But even with the lack of a giant, sinister figure peering down from above me, I still feel threatened. I can hear my rescuer taking out his cell phone next to me, obviously planning to call the police, and I turn my head away from the darkness. Still, safe in the arms of my savior, dread clings to my heart like black ice.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two 

_I met the man who would kill me on a dark November night. _

_He saved my life. _

"You needed seven stitches and you have a few nasty bruises, but other than that I believe you'll be perfectly fine. Oh, and the swelling of your tongue seems to have gone down slightly." The doctor announces. Not that I didn't already know about the bruises. I can see them clearly in the florescent light of the hospital room. They're immense and twisted, winding their way around my arms. They're hideous, not to mention their grotesque colour. Black and deep purple clash with the paleness of my skin, causing them to stand out like blueberry juice spilt on a white tablecloth.

I try to divert my attention from them and my eyes focus on Dean. He's talking with the doctor, answering her for me, because, well… I really can't speak with all these cotton balls stuffed in my mouth. They're quite difficult to maneuver around, and I truly don't feel like trying to talk at the moment. My tongue hurts – even with all the pain killers I had been given – I'm disoriented and tired, and I realize now that I am late for work.

Work – the cause of all my troubles this night. I had been late from the very beginning, my alarm clock failing me yet again as I tried to catch a small nap before my five hour shift at the bar. My tardiness had caused me to make the stupid decision to walk down a sinister alley in the middle of the night, and the rest is history. Work is the cause for all of this.

But I guess I can't blame everything on my job, like most people do. In fact, shouldn't I be blaming the two men who had tried to harm me? The two men who had attacked me while I had been walking down that sinister alley because I had been late for work? And to think that they're still out there. I suddenly shudder in the paper thin hospital gown I am dressed in.

In the back of my mind I know I should be freaking out right now. It seems like the proper thing to do, to run to the police and tell them everything – or at least try to – but I'm guessing shock is still numbing my thoughts, not to mention the lightheadedness obtained from the painkillers. The initial fear and panic I had felt in the alley has vanished. It has completely disappeared, and I feel sort of happy. Weird, I know, but it's like everything that has just happened to me is one big joke.

But now back to Dean, because he's staring at me strangely. I think it might be the small smile on my lips as I fight back the giggle tickling my throat. God I have such strange reactions to serious situations… I look down, hiding my smile until I can wipe it off my face, because I see that it's pretty inappropriate now. As I glance back Dean is now concentrated on the doctor, who seems to be speaking to me.

"I'll need you to come back to the hospital in a week to remove those stitches. As for your tongue, the swelling should reduce in a few days time. Just be very careful when you try to speak. You don't want to bite it again, and you'll have to drink a lot of liquids for the next couple of days. I recommend nutrition shakes. Other than that, you're free to leave."

She says this fairly quickly as I nod my head, one of my hands placed firmly over my mouth to block the exit of any escaping cotton balls. However, she doesn't wait to see my acknowledgement for she has already turned back to Dean. As he thanks her for her help, I watch as she looks up at him with large shiny eyes, as if Dean is the most angelic thing she has ever seen. Her hands are shuffling around, as if she wants to reach out and touch him but is unable to. The scene makes me nauseous, especially considering that a ring is glistening from her left wedding finger, but he returns her flirting gestures with a gentleman quality.

As she leaves the room – quite reluctantly – Dean turns back to me and I guess I can't blame the doctor for acting like a giddy schoolgirl in his presence. I mean, just looking at him causes my heart to speed up, but it's not merely his appearance. Sure, he's fit, with a body that looks incredibly amazing even when it's covered with a grey shirt and a leather jacket. His face is really nothing less than that of an angel and his height makes him look strong and capable, but there is something else…

And that's when I discover it – sort of – because I find myself checking out the colour of his irises as he stares at me. They are a greenish hazel, and when I somehow look deeper, I can see a hidden sorrow. It's faint, barely noticeable, but I can see it nevertheless, and it makes my heart ache.

"So," he says. "I guess we're not going to get the chance to talk." He smiles, kind of an unsure smirk, as if he's not certain if this is the right time to make jokes. I guess you could consider his statement a joke, for I had been unable to talk since we met. Besides my garbled answer to his inquiring question in the alley, he had done all the talking. My tongue is like a damp towel shoved in my mouth, enabling me to even spit out a single syllable.

Nonetheless, listening to Dean had been good enough as I tried to get my bearings. In his car, on the way to the hospital, he had introduced himself as Dean Thompson. Apparently he had been on his way to a friend's house when he had walked past the alley and spotted me in danger.

He hasn't revealed much else, not mentioning any details on how he managed to stop Tree Trunk – probably thinking I shouldn't have to hear it after all I went through - and I'm wondering if I'll ever know anything else. I'm also wondering if he is about to leave, but like an answer to my unasked question, he begins to walk toward me. I'm sitting on the end of the hospital bed and I watch him come closer but then quickly change his direction, noticing something on the counter to the right.

I turn my head to glimpse what he has spotted but his body is already concealing it as he picks it up. Suddenly he turns around and reveals a small notebook and a red pen. He's grinning as he hands them to me and I take the items gratefully, thankful to finally have a way to communicate with this man. After all, he _did_ save my life. I think I am permitted to thank him.

"I already know your name," he says as he stands before me. I'm hunched over the paper as it rests on my lap, the pen gripped firmly in my right hand. "But what I'd _like_ to know is why a pretty girl like you decides to walk down a dark alley in the middle of the night alone?"

I can feel my cheeks grow hot and am suddenly thankful for the long strands of black hair that conceal my face. I begin to scribble on the paper, having a hard time as I balance it on my lap, but finally manage to answer his question. I hold the notebook up for him to read and watch as his eyes flick back and forth as he scans my words.

"Work, huh?" he asks as a smirk appears on his face. "At midnight?"

I can tell that he thinks I'm lying, so I send him a warning glance and then write "I work at a bar" on a fresh piece of paper. He seems to understand, for now he's nodding his head. Before he can ask another question I scrawl my own in messy letters.

He reads it and laughs. "Tree Trunk? Is that what you call him?" He pauses for a moment, trying to answer my question as to how he stopped my 'would be killer' and sent him scurrying into the night. "Well, I guess I just had the advantage of surprise." He shrugs as if that's the best answer he can give and I accept it for now, but I know there's more to it.

I am about to write my profound "thank you" but he suddenly glances at the clock on the wall and a frown takes hold of his face. His expression is that of regret and I detect a genuine apology in the way the corners of his mouth are twisted down. "I have to go." He announces, his voice thick with unhidden disappointment. "What's the name of the bar you work at? Maybe I can come by in a few days, see that you're still all right."

I'm not sure at first, but then – silently scolding myself - I look down at the notebook and write "Three Hounds" in large, red letters anyway. He nods his head as he reads the name of the bar and then asks, "I guess I should come by late?" I nod my own head now and he shoves one of his hands in his pocket. "All right then," he says as he walks slowly backwards, toward the door. "Don't go down any dark alleys."

And then he's gone and I'm left in the white hospital room alone. I suddenly become aware of the coldness in the air again and look around for an open window but find none. Dressed solely in the embarrassing hospital gown, I reach for my pile of clothes lying on the bed and head to the washroom in the corner of the room. I'm surprised to find my green T-shirt blood free, but a few drops have soiled the front of my jeans. Luckily, they're barely noticeable.

Flicking on the washroom light I position myself in front of the mirror and prepare to look at myself for the very first time since I left my apartment two hours ago. What I see stuns me: Black, stringy hair hanging in knots around my face. Makeup smudged underneath sunken eyes. Hideous bruises wrapping themselves around my neck. Cotton balls protruding from cracked lips. I think of Dean and suddenly I want to laugh.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

_I met the man who would kill me on a dark November night. _

_He saved my life. _

_My savior. _

I find it quite strange that I haven't been questioned by the police. In fact, news of my attackers has been very limited. Scratch that. There has been _no_ news about my attackers. But I think long and hard about it and I come up with the explanation that the police are waiting for my tongue to heal. Yes, stupid, I know, but it's the only reason I can think up. And with my ability to speak back and running, I expect them to knock on my door at any moment.

But for now I am taking a break from serving drinks in the bar. I have been thinking of quitting, alcohol not exactly on my "things I want to be around" list, but the cold hard truth is I need the money. Plus, who is going to hire a high school dropout with nothing on her résumé but 'waitress'? It is hardly unlikely that I will be able to find a job that pays better than minimum wage. But like I said, it's the _cold_ hard truth.

It has been four days after my ordeal, and not to lie, I don't feel much different. Aside from the uneasiness that creeps into my stomach every time I glance down an alley and the newly born habit of carrying mace in my purse, I'm exactly the same as I always have been. Well… maybe not quite.

The fact is, now that it's all over, my experience in the alley feels like a drifting nightmare. It feels unreal. I view the memory like a bystander, like it happened to someone else. These past few days have enabled me to somehow separate what happened that night from reality.

Unfortunately, they have also lessened my memory of Dean. I can still remember what he looks like (how could I not?) but I forget the colour of his eyes and now I'm not sure what I saw in them that night. Was it truly sadness? What was he sad about? His memory has taken on a dream like quality in my mind and I'm left to wonder if he had saved me at all. Maybe that whole occurrence had never happened.

But every time I glance in a mirror – glimpse the bruises staining my skin - the memories flood back and I am reliving the experience. I can smell the blood and alcohol and piss; feel the pain and warm trickling blood, the crushing pressure on my neck; taste the copper and the fear; hear the sounds of other people, unaware of my situation and my need of help; s_ee_ that "different" look in the giant man's eyes, the way he stares hungrily at me.

"Mercedes?" I quickly snap out of my nightmare and swivel around to face Keisha. She's looking at me curiously, confusion apparent on her dark skinned face, but a smile speedily creeps its way to her lips. "When did you meet him?" she asks, and it's my turn to be confused. "What?"

"_Where_ did you meet him actually. I need to go there."

I sigh. "What are you talking about Keisha?"

"The hunk asking for you at the counter. He's absolutely _gorgeous_ Mercy. Why didn't you tell me about him?"

My expression freezes in realization and I creep to the door leading into the main room. Peaking through the dirty, round window, I spot him in the crowd. Dean. He seems completely at ease in the setting of the busy bar, a beer in his right hand, but where happy drunken faces crowd the area, his is darkly clouded over.

"Who is he Mercedes?" Keisha whines from behind me and I suddenly remember she's in the room. I turn to face her. "Nobody." I say as I take a deep breath and walk past her, picking up the tray I had placed on a crate of beer. And I sort of believe it too, for even though I had just seen him, he still feels like a past dream.

"Nobody?" Keisha is growing annoyed. "Come on Mercy, you owe me this one."

I grip the tray in my hands and grudgingly agree to tell her, if only to stop her pleading. "He's the guy who saved me from those creeps," I say, and her jaw is dropping like a rollercoaster. She rushes to the circular window and peers out, like a child looking for Santa Claus. "_That's_ him? Oh my god Mercy! Beautiful _and _heroic!" I let out a snort as I push past her and make my way into the bustling bar, assuring myself first that my sweater is hiding the bruises on my neck.

The familiar noise hits me like a warm wave. Shouts and yells are clearly identified over the din, but everything else is a mixture of talking, bad singing, and the clinking and sloshing of glasses brimming with beer. The view is no less confusing. The place is jam packed, just like every Friday night, and people are everywhere. We're all about as cozy as sardines in a tin can.

Pushing and squeezing my way to the front of the counter I finally manage to reach him. I can see him now, just a few feet away, but he's looking in the opposite direction. He's talking to another man, younger and taller with shaggy dark hair that almost conceals his eyes. I have no clue who this other is, but recalling Dean's conversation in the car I make a guess that it might be the friend he had mentioned.

As I shove past a drunk trying hopelessly to call to a group of friends across the room, I can suddenly hear Dean's voice. It's barely audible, mixing in with the tons of other voices, but I can hear the words if I concentrate. And I do. I don't know why I do – eavesdropping has never really been my style – but my feet suddenly stop and my ears perk up.

"Dude, I'm not going to tell her. It'll freak her out!" I hear Dean say, and I can't help but wonder if he is speaking about me. His friend answers him but I cannot decipher the other man's words, and now Dean's talking again. "But she's not going to believe it man. And then she'll probably get creeped out and it'll just be harder to help her."

I don't have a chance to hear more because the guy I had passed earlier is suddenly breathing down my neck and I freak, memories of the alley flashing through my mind, and before I know it I'm spinning around and shoving him backward. He topples over a stool and lands hard on his back, glaring up at me. "You stupid bitch!" he shouts, and I can see people watching, their eyes tearing holes through me.

I try to mumble an apology, realizing now that he had simply wanted to ask me for an order, but I can't get one out because Dean is now standing in front of me, his back turned but clenched fists clearly visible. It reminds me of the first time I saw him, his silhouette in the alleyway.

"What did you just call her asshole?" His voice is enraged with anger, his knuckles turning white.

"N-Nothing man," I hear the other man reply, and Dean seems to calm down. His body is rotating toward me and his hands are unclenching. Behind him I can see the man rising to his feet, but then I quickly direct my stare to Dean.

"What are you doing here?" I blurt out. Of course I already know why he's here, but what I had heard him talking about just seconds earlier _has_ freaked me out, and now I'm looking at him with doubt in my mind.

I guess he senses my uneasiness, because his expression deepens with a twinge of pain and he's wondering why I am suddenly on guard. But the hurt quickly disappears behind an unreadable mask. "I told you I would come." He says, and I can't help but feel a little less troubled. "Glad to hear you've joined the speaking."

He smirks and I brush his earlier conversation away like a string of hair in my face. But suspicion still lingers. "I'm… uh… sorry," I apologize as I wave my question away. "I've just been kind of trying to forget that whole night."

I suddenly realize he may be taking my words the wrong way, so I quickly interrupt before he has a chance to say anything. "Not you, of course, just…" I give up trying to explain; to describe how everything still seems like a lingering nightmare. "I never got to thank you." I end up saying instead. "I, uh, don't really know how to."

He opens his mouth as if to say something, a cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes suddenly flicker to his friend behind me and his jaw clenches as his lips press tightly together. I can see him swallow, his adam's apple bobbing up then down. He glances around, at the hordes of people jamming the bar, and then turns back to me.

"Do you think we could maybe go somewhere a little more private?" he asks. I bite my lower lip, hesitant. "Yah, sure," I reply. "There's a diner across the street. I can meet you there in five minutes."

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Keisha shoos me away before I can ask her to cover me for twenty minutes, claiming "she'll cover as long as she can get her hands on a picture of Dean". The diner across the street is a place I have rarely visited, sometimes after working hours when a group of us get together for a late snack (or early, whichever way you want to look at it). Dean and his friend are waiting by the door when I arrive, pulling my coat tighter around me as the chilly air prickles my skin.

The two look comfortable in the laid back setting of the diner as well, and I find myself wondering who these two actually are. Dean greets me with a nod of his head and I presume he sees my awkward glance towards his friend – for I suddenly realize we haven't been introduced. "This is my brother Sam," he begins, and I look for a resemblance but oddly cannot find one. "Sam, this is Mercedes."

I have a feeling that Sam already knows my name, but I guess introducing me is supposed to be somewhat polite. Sam mutters a hello, his lips slightly turning upwards, but I notice something a little off with his smile. I can't quite put my finger on it, but my thoughts are immediately interrupted by Dean's voice. "Hungry?"

The diner is almost completely empty, a shabby man sitting by the large front window and a middle-aged woman behind the counter. We take the back booth, the farthest away from prying eyes or listening ears, and this choice of seating has doubts flickering in my mind again. As the two men seat themselves across from me, I keep reminding myself that this is the man who saved my life, but an uneasy feeling remains in the pit of my stomach.

"So," I say, a little uncomfortable with the brothers' silence. "I guess I should thank you again Dean, for saving my life." I let out a chuckle. "I still can't believe – I mean – Is there really a way I can repay you?"

"You don't have to repay anyone Mercedes." Sam instantly replies for his brother. He's staring at me with a serious expression on his face, a type of understanding glowing in his eyes. "It's not your fault you were attacked."

"You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time." I hear Dean mutter, and my eyes flicker towards him, his own eyes playing along the table top.

I smile, trying to outweigh the sudden tenseness Dean has donned. "And lucky for me, you just happened to be in the right place at the _right_ time." An urgent topic unexpectedly returns to me. "And about my… attackers. I haven't heard from the police. Have they contacted you about them at all?"

Dean's head whisks upward but suddenly turns away. "Yah, they, uh-" The loud tapping of high heeled shoes on tiles suddenly echoes in the diner and I turn my head to see the woman I had spotted behind the counter earlier walking down the aisle toward us. Wrinkles etching her folding face and dark bags hanging from beneath her eyes, she stops at our booth. "Sorry kids," she croaks. "But we're closing up."

I find it silly that we weren't told this when we came in only a few minutes earlier, but Dean seems only too glad to leave. Standing up he turns to face me and his brother. "How about we finish this outside. I'm sure you have to get back to work soon Mercedes, so it'll be quick."

I catch a strange glance from Sam directed toward his brother, but nod my head in agreement as I follow them out of the diner. We silently make our way up the street a few steps until we're distanced from the restaurant, and this is where Dean turns to face me once more. I hug my coat to my chest as I glance around nervously, a dark alley only a few meters away. I want to return to the bar, but I need answers, and Dean is about to give me them.

As the man opens his mouth to speak he seems to hesitate and I stare at him expectantly. Suddenly Sam speaks from slightly behind him. "Dean," Is all he says and then his brother is swiftly speaking. "I didn't call the police that night Mercedes."

At first I don't understand what he is telling me. Surely he had called the police. I had almost been killed and my 'would be killer' had gotten away. He had to have called the police. He _did_ for I saw him speak on his cell phone, though it occurs to me now that I never heard his conversation.

The three of us are silent for a moment but then I suddenly ask, my voice shaking, "Why didn't you call the police?" There is no answer, and I turn my eyes to Sam, hoping he will be able to provide me with one, but the expressions on both their faces are useless. And suddenly I feel incredibly angry.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four 

_I met the man who would kill me on a dark November night. _

_He saved my life. _

_My savior. My Killer. _

"Why didn't you call the police?" I repeat, a growl growing at the base of my throat. I can feel my hands shaking with fury, and I try to calm them but it's an impossible task. Instead, I use it, transferring all the quaking anger to my eyes and shooting daggers at Dean. Metaphorically speaking of course, because if I actually _did_ have knives, Dean would not be standing.

I discover my voice has fled me once again, this time rage being the culprit, and all I can do is wait for an answer. But Dean isn't giving me one. He's glancing from his brother to the ground, a flicker in my direction, another uneasy look at his brother, and just when I feel I am about to explode, he locks eyes with me.

I can see his chest rise as he inhales a deep breath, but it quickly falls and the words that tumble out of his mouth are quick and quiet, as if he's hoping I won't hear them after all. But I do, and his answer causes my eyebrows to cut downward in a perplexed scowl.

"Because they couldn't have helped, Mercedes." My frustration is making it hard to stay still, but I manage to control myself as he defends his reasoning. "They don't know what we know, and truthfully, I don't think you should know either."

My voice has suddenly returned with a vengeance, and the words burst from my mouth like an erupting volcano. "What the hell do you think you're _doing_ Dean? You think you can just screw with my life like this? That man tried to kill me, and now you come here and tell me he's still _out there_? He's still on the streets? Go to hell because now he can be after some other girl and he can be _killing_ her!"

I suddenly realize that I'm pummeling him. Not just verbally, but physically as well. My fists are swinging and I'm striking him in the chest and abdomen and arms and I land one on his jaw before he stops me.

"Mercedes, stop!" I hear him snarl as he grips my wrists, and I can't help but return to that night in the alley. The taste of blood… the fingers on my neck… the sound of my torn breathing … And now I can feel the searing ferocity draining from my body. In its place comes hot, stinging water brimming at the edges of my eyes, and my knees buckle beneath me as the salty tears spill over and run down my face.

"Mercedes…" His voice is a whisper as he releases his hold on me and I slump to the ground. I cry there for a few minutes, absorbing everything that has happened. Questions are flooding my mind but I can't grasp them; I can't answer them. They're like a swarm of angry bees buzzing around in my head, each question I swat at bringing a tiny prick of pain.

An intense wave of deja-vu suddenly collides with my mind and I am transported several years back. I am thirteen years old. My room is a small square surrounding me and salty tears fall to a soft carpet, colleting near a pair of old working boots. _My father's._ He stands above me as I cradle myself by his feet, gut wrenching sobs wracking my body. I can feel his want to comfort me, to tell me everything will be okay, but I can also sense his hesitation. He cannot make that promise, and I know exactly why. Because it will not be all right.

_And it never was…_

My eyes sting with the salt. My lungs burn with the sobs. My heart aches with the dread. As my shaking body slowly relaxes, I can feel a hand gently touch my shoulder. The contact is unsure and tentative, but it's the only thing I can cling to at the moment. The only confidence I can feel, because it seems like I'm still ten years in the past.

I can recall my father's hand on my shoulder, calming me as I get to my knees. His strong hands wrapping around me and lifting me from the ground. I can almost picture his face as I open my eyes; kind gentle stare, worried wrinkles creasing his forehead and running along the sides of his mouth, soft black hair. But his face is replaced with that of another as my eyelids peel back and I am once again in the cold, lonely street.

This other face is full of guilt; Guilt and a mixture of other emotions. I can tell Dean's angry – not at me, but at himself. I notice his jaw already slightly bruising from where I had stricken him, a faint purple smudge. His expression is somewhat pleading and I notice that he's avoiding looking at me, which I consider is the only right thing to do at the moment.

He sounds regretful as he speaks to me, his voice soft but hardly comforting. "He's not after some other girl Mercedes," he says, and I have no clue how he knows this, but I strangely believe him. "He's after you."

And so they explain everything. The whole lot, served to me on a platter like it's something I can just swallow and keep down. But it's not that simple, because what they're saying makes no sense. I don't _understand_, and I want to tell them that this is all completely insane, that this whole situation has spun out of control, but I can only stand there and listen.

"He has your scent Mercedes," Sam is saying, but his words don't register. They _can't _convey for the simple reason that this is all supposed to be fiction. None of this is supposed to be real. In truth, I'm having a tough time believing that this _conversation_ is actually happening. What are they talking about? What crap are they trying to feed me? Because even if it's served to me on a silver platter, I still can't stomach it.

I think they've stopped speaking, for now they're looking at me anxiously and I imagine they expect me to throw another fit or cry my guts out again. I do neither. Instead, I take a deep breath, letting the stale air fill my lungs slowly before releasing it. And a funny thought enters my mind. I start thinking about what _I_ am, the things I've witnessed myself do in the past. Wasn't it all equally impossible to what these two were trying to describe? I smile.

And then I start laughing. It's a tickle at the back of my throat at first, but then it grows until I'm doubling up, holding my stomach as my ribs ache and I can't breathe. After a minute I straighten my back and let out a sigh, my lips still tuned to a smirk.

"Tree Trunk is a werewolf?"

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"_So_?" This single word is drawn out as a probing question as Keisha leans on the stack of boxes beside me. I'm staring at nothing really, just staring, and Keisha's question barely penetrates my whirling thoughts as I simply stare. We're standing in the back room of the bar again, but where once the thought of my attack was only a distant nightmare, it is now all too real.

"Mercy?" Her voice enters my conscience enough to pull me from my thoughts as I glance over at her. She raises her eyebrows as I try to focus on her question, clearly distracted. She bites her lower lip as she grins. "My goodness girl, he's already got you in a dream land! But I completely understand. Hey, who's that friend of his? Maybe you can introduce me."

I find myself tuning out of reality once again as Keisha's giddy talk continues. How do I explain what just happened? How do I tell my friend that my distraction is not about some guy who had saved me, but about some guy who had just told me my life could very possibly end in a horrific way in less than a few days?

_Maybe I can hook you up with Sam, Keisha, but I have to warn you that him and his brother are hunters. No, not your typical everyday 'shoot a deer in the head' hunters, but supernatural hunters. Yep, that's right, and did I tell you they're trying to stop a werewolf from chomping down on me? So before you think of anything long term, maybe you should consider the possibility of also becoming a meal to a hairy man beast that really shouldn't exist. But if you're still interested… _

I determine it may be better to skip this conversation. Suddenly clutching my stomach, I interrupt Keisha. "I'm, uh, not feeling very well Keish," Which is not completely a lie. Ever since I returned to the bar, the humor I found in my sudden situation abruptly fading, my stomach has been tying itself in tight knots. "I think I'm going to head home. Tell Steve I ended my shift an hour early, would yah?"

As I walk past Keisha she answers with a concerned "sure" but thankfully lets me leave with no further queries. The chilly air outside slightly awakens my senses and somewhat puts my thoughts into order. As I begin to walk up the street, preparing to stay near the busier areas, I briefly notice a black car parked ahead of me at the side of the street.

It looks familiar, and I keep my eyes trained upon it as I near the automobile. When I am about to pass it the passenger door suddenly opens and a tall man steps out. I stop in surprise but quickly regain myself.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice harsher then I first intended. Sam sighs. "It's not safe for you to go home tonight Mercedes. You're unprotected there, and your scent is strongest among your things. It would be too easy for him to find you."

I don't know what to say. I'm still having a hard time accepting all of this. But the nagging comment at the back of my mind is nipping at me now. _Remember what _you _are. Remember what _you _can do._ I let out my own frustrated sigh. "Well then what am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go?"

"With us." Dean has exited the car as well now and is looking at me from across the sleek roof. "You'll be safer."

My jaw clenches once but then slowly relaxes. "All right," I agree, and Sam opens the back door of the car and I get in.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I'm sitting in their motel room, my legs crossed beneath me on the bed as I watch them hurry about. Dean's examining a shotgun to my left, and I watch with tired eyes as he throws it on the opposite bed uselessly. I've never set eyes on a gun before – besides the movies – and a sick feeling grows in the pit of my stomach as I stare at the gleaming weapon.

"Silver bullets are useless on werewolves," Sam explains as he crosses the room to help his brother. "It needs to be a knife, or a sword. Anything that can remain in contact with the user when it's plunged into its heart."

"Right," I agree, nodding my head. Sam must hear the skepticism in my voice, for he's turned around now, staring at me seriously. "Look Mercedes. I know this is a lot for you to take in at the moment, but you've gotta believe us. This is what Dean and I do. There _are_ evil things out there, and one of them is after you."

His voice is somehow compelling and it's hard to refuse his plea. I cast him a quick apologetic glance. "Sorry," I say in frustration, gripping my hair between my fingers. "I just – this isn't right. I mean how can werewolves exist? It's just not right…" And I can see they agree with me, for they're exchanging their own looks and no one says another word for a very long time.

The silence is finally broken when Dean speaks up. "There's no doubt he's after you, but we just have to figure out when he's going to attack."

"You think it'll be tomorrow?" Sam asks uneasily.

"Before," Dean sighs. "There's a full moon tonight. The bastard will probably be too anxious to wait any longer than he needs to."

"Wait," I interrupt and both their heads turn to look at me. "Why is this _thing_ after me? Why would it go through all of this trouble to get at _me_?"

"Because you got away," Dean replies but he's not staring at me anymore. I think he's looked away because the image of me being a meal has entered his head. I can see it too, and I quickly shove it away before the illustration is burned into my mind. Sam picks off where his brother left off.

"They usually start killing the week before a full moon. They," he searches for the right word. "_Prepare_ for their feast. Usually being in human form gives them an advantage."

"Can't have a werewolf out in plain sight," Dean adds in his own comment, and then says, "They're usually pretty touchy when they can't play with their food." Sam clears his throat purposefully and I can tell he finds Dean's words a little insensitive to my predicament, but it doesn't affect me. It's the truth anyhow, and though the words are somewhat raw, I understand.

"I'm guessing they're picky eaters." I joke, trying to lighten the mood if only for my sake, but the brothers don't seem to notice. It's almost as if an impassive veil of darkness has sheathed their lives, and it's completely impenetrable. I look from brother to brother, from each of their faces to the concealed expression they both hold, and I realize something.

I can't say I know them; that I can possibly understand them simply by studying the way they look, act, or speak, but I realize now that they exist in a different reality. One filled with secrets and strain, evil and destruction. And I also grasp the fact that what they're doing to me is tearing them up inside. They're dragging me into their world.

But what they don't know, what they can't possibly understand by studying the way I look, act, or speak, is that I have been in this world long before they arrived in my life. I have witnessed its secrets and strain, its evil and destruction. I have my very own shroud of shadows covering my life.

I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand; at the red block numbers that tell it is already my day to die. It's 3:18 on Saturday morning, the day before a full moon will hang lazily in the night sky, and I can feel my dinner rising in my throat.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five 

_I met the man who would kill me on a dark November night. _

_He saved my life. _

_My savior. My Killer. _

_It was somehow doomed from the beginning. _

So there's something I'm a bit curious about. Something I seem to have forgotten among all this worrying for my life and talk of evil creatures. I think now might be a good time to bring it up. Sam has left to get some food, for my stomach had let out a loud, embarrassing rumble only a few minutes ago. I still doubt I'll be able to swallow anything, but Sam had insisted. Now it's only me and Dean in the room and I'm a little uncomfortable with the stillness in the air.

"How did you do it?" I ask suddenly, and the man turns to me, a gleaming silver knife gripped in his hands. "Do what?" he replies with his own question.

"How did you stop him? The… werewolf?" I find it is a bit easier to say the word now. Dean puts the knife down on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed opposite from me. Clasping his hands before him he says, "All werewolves were once people at some point. You know the legend. If you're bitten by one you become one." I nod my head. I've seen enough movies to know this.

"I was searching for the werewolf at the time. Me and Sam knew it was in the city. We had run into it earlier that night. We knew the signs. There are always signs to look for when they're in human form. Werewolves usually appear as a large burly man, typically aggressive. There are exceptions of course, especially when it comes to women, but luckily for us this werewolf fit the bill.

"I was walking by the alley when I saw it. It had you and - and I knew it was about to make a kill so I ran as fast as I could. I didn't have the chance to use any weapons on it, but there's another thing about werewolves. If you know their name - the name they had before they were turned - and you say it aloud, they'll be unable to attack. At least for a moment. I'm guessing this one was surprised when it heard its own name and decided to book it. Ran off and left you."

The sounds I heard in the alley that night become clear. The harsh whisper must have been Dean calling out the name of the werewolf. Remembering Crap Eyes and his horrible breath, I wonder where _he_ went to, but I'm guessing he ran off as well when Dean had come into the picture. I'm sure he'll think twice next time he can't find a girlfriend.

"But you say it has my scent," I say suddenly, Crap Eyes being replaced with the immense shadow of Tree Trunk. "And it won't stop until it has me."

"But we won't let it get you Mercedes. Trust us. There is no way in hell it'll even come near you."

I get up abruptly and walk a few steps away from Dean. My arms are crossed before me as I contemplate why these two men are trying to help me. I don't deserve it, and I let Dean know my thoughts.

"You guys shouldn't be helping me." I announce, my back turned to him as I face the mirror hanging above the dresser. I see my reflection, the bruises still unmistakable on my skin, and I also see Dean stand up behind me. "We have to," he states simply, and a deep exasperation causes me to swing around and yell out harshly.

"No, you don't! I don't deserve it! I only deserve to be punished for the damage I've done."

I clasp a hand to my mouth before any more words come forward without my permission. I can feel the hot sting of tears at the back of my eyes and try desperately to push them back. I struggle to construct a barrier against my emotions, managing to create a thin mask that hardly does the job. Dean is staring at me from where he stands between the beds and a look of utter helplessness is imprinted on his face.

"What are you talking about Mercedes?" he asks in a voice that I can't help but to answer. I'm so tired of holding it all back, of keeping it all a secret. I need to unload it all. I need to tell someone, and at the moment Dean is the only one in the room. I don't know if he'll understand, but he seems like a plausible choice. He's witnessed the unbelievable, seen myths come to life before his eyes, and now he'll just be faced with yet another.

So this is it. After all the years of keeping my past behind me, it will finally break loose. Making my way back to the bed I sit in the exact spot and Dean takes a seat next to me. This is it, and I can't make myself look up. My eyes are glued to the dirty carpet of the motel room. Who would have thought this would be the place I'd tell my story?

"My parents divorced when I was only four." I begin easily enough. "I lived with my mom but every summer I'd visit my dad and his brother at this cottage they had. I had a friend there, Beau, and we had..." I let out a laughing sigh as I recall Beau. "This _tree_ house. We were playing one day and something happened. A piece of wood snapped and Beau fell." All humor is gone from my face now. "He broke his leg and when I - When I went to help him I touched his leg and…" My voice has receded to a broken whisper as I recall the memory and I find I can hardly continue. But the sense that Dean is sitting next to me, waiting patiently, allows me to go on.

"As soon as my fingers touched his leg it was as if… as if I healed him."

"You healed his broken leg?" Dean's voice is full of wonderment but I don't turn my head to answer him. My eyes remain fixed on the floor as I say, "Not in the sense you'd think. I _healed_ him but, the injury didn't disappear."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't heal it, I just… transferred it." My eyes are looking at him now, watching for his reaction, but I can tell he is still confused. I have never told anyone this before, other than those who were there to witness it, so I can't help my explanation from being a bit unclear. "I transferred it to my own body." I add in an attempt to make him understand, and his eyes suddenly widen.

I can tell he gets it now - no matter how unbelievable it sounds - and I return my gaze to the floor, continuing my story before he can say anything. "Beau ran for help as soon as I began to cry from the pain. My dad and uncle came and we told them what happened. We couldn't explain it and neither could they, but it happened several times after that. Not with serious injuries of course, but simple things. Like a paper cut. I never knew how I did it, but it just happened at times."

"But why do you think you deserve to be punished for this Mercedes?" Dean interrupts. "How can this cause you to harm anyone? It's impossible." His words are a low whisper, but they are spoken in a hard voice, as if he wants to force the words into my mind to make me hear them. I do hear them, but I am not finished yet.

"It's not like that Dean. I didn't use this ability to harm anyone, I… It happened when a robber broke into our house. He must have thought we were all gone at the time because he didn't know my dad was inside. I was with Beau out on the docks when I heard the gunshot. It was so _loud_ and I remember us running up to the cottage to see what had happened. My uncle was already there. He was with my dad." I pause for a moment, the recollection playing like an old video in front of my eyes. My words take on a distant tone as I continue.

"He was sitting on the floor. My father… His back was against the wall and – and I could see the red stain on his shirt. He was trying to cover it up but the blood was already pooling on the carpet beside him. Uncle Devin had the phone in his hand. He was calling for help. I was only fourteen but I could tell my dad was about to die." I swallow slowly and fear I won't be able to express the next moments, but I am surprised to hear the words flow from my mouth effortlessly.

"I knelt beside him. I wanted to help him so badly, to stop the bleeding, but he was looking at me with this desperate look in his eyes. I remember it so clearly… My hands were trembling as I reached out towards his wound. I was going to take it. I was going to take all the pain in his eyes away. But he stopped me. He told me not to. His voice was so weak but I couldn't disobey it. And then he closed his eyes and… and he was gone. He died there and I know I could have saved him."

Tears have found their way past my barrier and are freely spilling down my face. The sense of guilt I always feel somewhere within me has pushed itself to the front of my mind and my head pounds with regret. But Dean begins to speak next to me and I force myself to listen to his words.

"I've lost my father too Mercedes, and I feel – I feel just like you do. Like there was something I could have done to save him… Because I would have sacrificed _anything_ for him." He inhales deeply. "But sometimes you have to be on the receiving end. Sometimes you have to let others make their own sacrifices for _you_, and even if you may hate them for it, or hate yourself for allowing them to do it, you have to accept it. Because it was _their_ choice. It was their choice to save you, because _they_ would have sacrificed anything for you."

His words make sense but guilt is still evident within my mind. Words are unable to wash it away. "But it's not that simple Dean. You and your brother, you save people every day. You make up for any mistakes you've made in the past. I _can't_. I just can't…"

"Look Mercedes," His fingers are turning my chin to make my eyes focus on him. "This – this _ability_ that you have, you should never be forced to use it. _Never_. You didn't ask for it and it doesn't define who you are. And what happened that day was not your fault. You shouldn't feel guilty, because a guilty conscience grows. Trust me, I know, and soon it will be all you can feel. All you think of. You don't have to save anyone."

He's trying to comfort me and a smile appears through the tears, but I am still not convinced. Because he's right, a guilty conscience does grow, and it never stops. We both know, and I can see it in his eyes now - those two hazel irises that are full of so much pain - that he understands his words will not change anything. But he needs to say them anyway, even if they do not amend my past mistakes.

He needs to say them.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

_I met the man who would kill me on a dark November night._

_He saved my life._

_My savior. My Killer._

_It was somehow doomed from the beginning._

_It was all for the ending._

Sam returns with two greasy bags. He hands me a plain hamburger and a coke, and I thank him politely as I place the food to my side, realizing now that I forgot to tell him I'm a vegetarian. The brothers don't seem to have appetites either, and we sit in the motel room as we stare at our food, neither of us touching it.

I've asked Dean not to tell Sam about my ability. I'm not sure if he'll stay true to that promise, but he's silent for now. It's already afternoon and light filters in through the closed blinds at the front of the room. I try to swallow the dryness in my throat as I say, "So you guys are never… scared about this stuff?" To tell you the truth, the life these two men live fascinates me. I can't even imagine how they cope with it all.

With an exchanged glance between the brothers Sam finally answers. "Sometimes," he replies, smiling, as if it's some sort of inside joke. "But we've seen enough in our lifetime to get used to it."

I wonder what they have seen, what they have fought and killed and what evils they have rid this world of. "You two must be very brave." I say softly, and they both bow their heads humbly. "I guess you could say that…" Dean murmurs.

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The rest of the day strangely flies by as I remain in the motel room. Dean and Sam are always close by, cleaning their weapons, scrolling on their laptop. We make conversation sometimes, but mostly we are all silent. I try to keep my mind off tonight, when the werewolf will surely come for me, but it always slips to my experience in the alley. To help the dread from building within me I focus on Dean and Sam, on these two self-sacrificing people who are here to protect me. Twice I have to hold back tears.

It's six o'clock at night and still there is no sign of my attacker. The light has diminished outside and the blinds are still closed. I feel restless. I need to breathe in some fresh air but I know I shouldn't be outside. Sam seems to notice my uneasiness. "I need to get a drink." He announces unexpectedly. His brother casts him a confused look but then realizes what he's doing. I also understand and smile gratefully. "It'll only take a few minutes. Want to come with me Mercedes?"

Nodding my head I get up from the bed, my legs soar and stiff from sitting for so long. "Be careful," I hear Dean warn as we exit the room. I can see the glint of the silver knife tucked into Sam's jeans as he does not reply.

The parking lot is almost completely empty and I believe we are one of the very few customers staying at this motel. It's an isolated building, set on the outskirts of the city and picked by Sam and Dean for privacy and for the protection of others. I'm guessing it's not such a good idea to lead a hungry werewolf to an area bustling with people.

The pop machine is located in front of the main building and Sam glances around as I follow him toward it. "Werewolves usually attack near midnight." He announces. "There's no real reason for it, but I guess it's just a preference to them." I'm assuming he's telling me this to stop any discomfort I feel about wandering outside at dark, a full moon visible in the sky, peaking out from dusty clouds.

The clunk of the machine echoes through the parking lot as Sam reaches down for his drink. He turns around to ask me if I want anything but my eyes are not focused on him. I've noticed something and fear is slowly numbing my throat. Through the large window of the main building, where I can clearly see the front desk and racks of brochures for public attractions, I also spot a thin line of red streaking across the yellowing wall. Without thinking I enter the building and near the counter.

Sam yelps behind me, following my sudden movements as I come to stand at the desk. The red line looks like fresh paint, and as Sam comes to stand next to me, also noticing the colour now, he suddenly grips my shoulder. "Get back to the room Mercedes," he commands, his voice deadly serious, and I notice he is not staring at the paint. He is looking down, behind the desk, and as I lean over I scream.

A man is crumpled on the floor, blood soaking his clothes as his mauled body remains still, and I feel like I am about to throw up. The sight is grisly, resembling that of a picture I once saw of a bear attack victim. I jerk backwards almost immediately, nearly falling as Sam comes between me and the gruesome sight. "Get back! Now!" I quickly obey without hesitation, running towards the motel room with Sam close behind. The door is already open with Dean standing in the entrance way, concern on his face.

"What the hell happened?" he asks. "I heard you scream." Sam answers for me. "It's hear Dean. It attacked the manager. He's dead."

Dean's expression falls and for a moment the grief in his eyes spreads along his face, but it is immediately covered up by a determined mask. "The damn thing broke pattern."

"It's smart. It knows we're aware of its habits. Obviously it's trying to throw us off." Sam guides me into the room and makes me sit on the bed. "Stay here Mercedes," he says as I sit completely still, the image of the torn and bloodied man still fresh in my mind. "We'll be back in a second, and if you hear something, _anything_ at all, scream." I nod my head and he casts a nervous glance to his brother. "Its name is Jeremiah Rolt." He adds, and it takes me a moment to understand.

"Right," I breathe, nodding my head for a second time. If I do happen to encounter the werewolf, at least I'll have a few seconds more to live. Somehow this thought doesn't comfort me. Sam leaves me then, joining his brother at the entrance as they stare out into the night. They appear to hear or see something for suddenly they are darting out of the room, Sam shutting the door behind him. I listen for sounds but can hear nothing but my loud breathing.

The room is completely silent. I'm alone. The shadows leak from the corners of the room and I can feel the fear in my throat, trapping my voice again. I try to swallow the terror but it's sticking like a wet tissue. I'm expecting a shadow to come alive; to jump at me and tear at my throat, snarling in my ear as it tastes my blood. I divert my stare from the gloom to the door, focusing on it until my eyes begin to burn. And suddenly the door handle begins to rattle and I let out a scream.


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven 

_I met the man who would kill me on a dark November night. _

_He saved my life. _

_My savior. My Killer. _

_It was somehow doomed from the beginning. _

_It was all for the ending. My ending. _

The door swings open and Sam appears in the doorway. I cannot explain how relieved I feel. I was expecting to see a horribly appalling monster in the entrance, blood dripping from fangs, and now I see only Sam. But my relief is short-lived, for I can hear the alarm in his voice as he yells, "Come on Mercedes!"

He runs over to the bed as I quickly scurry off, my foot catching on the twisted comforter. I begin to fall but he catches me and pulls me to my feet. With my wrist gripped firmly in his left hand, a pointed knife in his other, we rush out of the room and into the unlit parking lot.

Dean is standing by the open driver's door of his black car and is waving for us to hurry. As gravel crunches beneath my feet my breaths come in short huffs. I can feel my heart beating in my chest like a loud war drum; deep, steady, and fast. As we make it to the car, Dean taking me from his brother and opening the back door for me, a low growl suddenly tears through the air.

My feet stop stiffly with terror as I watch a shadow to my right abruptly come alive, jumping at me with snapping jaws. I hear myself scream, feel my back fall heavily against the open car door behind me and my head knock painfully against its top. A male's shout is heard next but I'm falling to the ground, slumping against the door as I feel cold stones beneath my fingers.

There are loud scraping sounds and a shower of small rocks hit my body. My eyes open to reveal three sets of feet, one in a pair of running shoes, the other in black boots, and the last inhuman. Fur covers this third pair, running up its ankles and yellow claws sprouting from its toes. I feel another scream building up at the base of my throat but it remains trapped there as the feet scuttle against the gravel.

There is a clatter to my right as a gleaming knife hits the ground and Sam's voice rings clearly in my head. "Get the dagger!" His voice is cut off by a grunt as I hear a loud thud and the car rocks beside me. The knife is still laying freely to my side, only a few feet away, and I suddenly obtain the sense to reach for it. Darting across the gravel, small rocks digging into my hands and knees, I come close enough to grab it in my right hand but as I look up I am suddenly cast in shadow.

It's almost as if I have returned to that night in the alleyway, for I know I am looking up at the same creature that towered before me then. But now there is no longer a human face staring down at me. In its place are a hairy, snarling snout, two pointed ears, and a pair of jet black eyes glowering with hunger. The creature's body is immensely huge, larger than when I first laid eyes on it, and now its back is hunched in a way that tells me it is about to attack. Its humanly long arms are held away from its body, each hand spouting claws that gleam in the moonlight as it growls loudly.

But for once my voice surprises me and I am able to speak. Through the sheer terror I feel, the two words slip from my lips and the monster's ears perk up. "Jeremiah Rolt…" The name enrages the creature, its head tilting up as a piercing snarl reaches my ears and numbs my limbs. I know this is my opportunity. I know I have to get away, but my body won't listen to my thoughts. Not only has my voice fled me now, but the ability to move is no longer in reach either.

Unable to scream, unable to even lift my arm and defend myself, I close my eyes and wait for the werewolf's claws and teeth to dig into my flesh. But the pressure I feel on my arm now is not painful. It is releasing my grip from the dagger and as I feel the weapon slip from my fingers I force myself to look and see Dean before me. He's rushing at the werewolf, standing between me and the horrible creature as he thrusts his arm out and meets the monster straight on.

What I hear next is something similar to a wolf's mournful howl and a lion's mighty roar, vibrating through the air as the monster takes a step back, the dagger held in Dean's hand piercing through its fur and no doubt through its black heart. As it falls backward the knife slides from its body, Dean's grip unwilling to let go of the weapon, and it lies motionlessly on the grey gravel.

As soon as the monster hits the ground it is as if its invisible hold on my body is released and I will myself to get to my feet. Standing on shaking legs I stare at Dean as he slowly turns around, Sam appearing to my left as the younger brother gets up from where he was thrust into the car by the creature now dead before us. I can't help but let out an unbelievable laugh, grinning as I realize we are all safe. That this nightmare has ended. Sam smiles too, his lips almost unidentifiable in the darkness of the night. But Dean is not smiling.

The older Winchester is staring at me through hooded eyes and I suddenly sense that something is wrong. Sam must as well, for he is already beside his brother as Dean's legs give out and he collapses towards the ground. Catching him and slowing his fall, Sam is calling his brother's name. "Dean! Man, what's wrong? Dean, what's happening?"

I'm the first to notice. There is a rip in Dean's shirt, a simple tear across his left shoulder that has me gasping aloud. Sam's head whips upward as he hears me and then follows my gaze to his brother's shoulder. "Oh god…" he whispers, and is suddenly shaking his brother. "No, man, come on. Not this. Not now. Come on Dean. Talk to me. This can't be it. Dean!"

I kneel beside the older Winchester, his body lying across the gravel, his eyes open but blank. "Sam!" I have to yell to get the younger Winchester's head to even turn to me, but now I have his concentration. "I need you to listen to me." He stares at me, bewildered with water flowing to his eyes, but I can tell he's paying attention. "You have to promise me that you won't let me live." I say, and now his expression turns to confusion.

"Mercedes, what are you tal-" I don't let him finish his sentence for the tears are beginning to appear and I know I don't have much more time.

"Just promise me…" I barely whisper and I'm surprised that he can hear me; hear the pleading in my voice. He nods his head once, though I don't know if he really means it or is simply agreeing because he doesn't know what else to do. Whatever is running through his mind, I put him out of my own and turn my attention to Dean.

He's still lying on the ground, his face ashen. I can see the tear in his shirt, blood glistening from the bite mark like a red jewel. I place my hand on his face, his cold skin tingling my fingers, and let out a deep breath. "You have people to save," I whisper as I concentrate on his eyes, empty. "I just have one."

And now I can feel the poison. It's twisting and turning in his veins, infecting his body like a ravenous disease. I can feel its evil, its destruction, and I openly embrace it. I suck it into my own body, call to it, pull it into me. I feel it seep into my own veins, flow like my blood; change me from the inside out.

And I am still focusing on Dean's eyes, watching as the sadness - that deep sorrow – returns to them, and I feel my own remorse released. His eyes slowly shut as his chest rises, and I can feel my heartbeat beginning to fade. A smile flickers to my lips as the last trace of the poison escapes his body, and my hand slips from his face.

I can hear Sam's voice but it sounds distant, as if my world is underwater. Everything becomes fuzzy, images becoming indistinct and unrecognizable; all but Dean's eyelids, because I am still waiting for them to open. I am still waiting to notice the colour of his irises again because I want to remember forever. I want the sorrow to appear again, the drop of pain that will forever remain with him and tell so much in one glance. I want to see him.

But as his eyes flicker open mine slide shut and that fleeting moment is the last thing we share.

_I met the man who would kill me on a dark November night. _

_He saved my life. _

_My savior. My Killer. _

_It was somehow doomed from the beginning. _

_It was all for the ending. My ending. _

_I guess we're even now._

__

The End 


End file.
